Ancient History
by msgenevieve447
Summary: She's never been one for sharing 'numbers', but when the man you love has a couple of hundred years' worth of history, the ordinary rules don't seem to apply. (tumblr prompt of jealous Emma)


Everyone comes with baggage.

She knows this, maybe better than anyone.

Everyone has a history, everyone has secrets in their past that don't need sharing.

Besides, she's never been one for sharing 'numbers'. It's pointless, confessing how many people you've fucked before _them_. It does nothing but make things awkward and weird as far as she's concerned. But when the man you love has a couple of hundred years' worth of history, the ordinary rules don't seem to apply.

She knows how much he loved Milah, how much he still cherishes her memory. She knows how much he loves _her_, and how much he treasures every moment he's spent in her bed.

She's pretty sure he doesn't care about her romantic history, unless she had a score to settle and he needed to avenge her honour. She's also pretty sure that a handsome scoundrel such as Captain Hook would have more notches on his bedpost than she's had hot dinners.

He loves her and he's here, sitting beside her in the kitchen of her newly acquired apartment. She doesn't _do_ numbers. So why does she really want to ask The Question when she's not sure she wants to hear the answer? She doesn't want to think about him being with other women, and yet she can't stop herself wondering what it was like, what _he_ was like with them, whether he was different with them, if he took care of them the way he always does with her.

She's not sure of the answer she wants to hear, to be honest.

It takes two glasses of red over a takeout dinner at their makeshift kitchen table before she works up the courage, and even then, her feeling of dread grows with every mumbled word. "So, I guess you've lived quite the pirate's life when it comes to woman," she begins, then runs out of steam, her voice failing her.

He frowns (she doesn't blame him, they'd been talking about painting the ceiling of the front room, after all), tilting his head to one side as he studies her. "Well, I certainly wasn't a man of the cloth, love," he says gently, then reaches across the table to brush his fingertips across the back of her hand. "Are you feeling the weight of my years?"

She shrugs, wishing she'd never mentioned it. She's not a jealous person. She's _not,_ she tells herself, pushing away the memory of the white-hot twist of _something _that had curled her chest when she'd seen him with Tinkerbell that day. "Just curious, I guess."

His hand curls around hers, his palm warm against her skin. "My life is an open book as far as you're concerned, Swan, but I can't help feeling that you have a specific question in mind."

She takes a sip of wine before answering, both stalling for time and hoping the alcohol smooths out the rough edges of her thoughts. "Do you want to know how many past lovers I've had?"

He looks faintly horrified. "Bloody hell, Swan, why on earth would I want to know that?" She just looks at him, and comprehension apparently dawns quickly, his eyes softening with understanding. "Is that customary in this realm? To confess a litany of past conquests?"

"Yeah." She shrugs again, but she can feel the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "But when you put it like that-"

He's shaking his head now. "Your world perplexes me greatly at times, my love." His hand tightens around hers, then he lifts it to his lips, touching his mouth to her fingers. "If I've learned nothing else during the last few years, it's that there are some things that are better left in the past." He kisses the back of her hand, and she imagines she can feel the heat of it tickling along her skin, all the way up to her heart. "Your secrets are your own until you chose to honour me with them. As for myself, I will tell you anything you wish, but I would like you to know one thing first, Swan."

She lifts her head, gazing at him over their clasped hands. "What's that?"

He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself, but his eyes never leave hers. "I have had the pleasure of the company of many women during my lifetime, and I treated every one of them as though she were a princess, whether she was of blue-blood or of peasant stock." He gives her a bright blue wink. "Such respect was always greatly rewarding, I found."

Her face grows hot. She should have guessed he'd be just as startlingly frank in answering this particular question as he is with everything else, but she still wasn't ready to hear it. "Okay."

"Remember this, darling." He smiles, his bright eyes crinkling at the corners, and she feels her heart clench. "None of them were you." He kisses her hand again, his lips lingering this time. "I waited a very long time to find you, Swan, but it was worth every bloody year spent searching for the woman who would conquer my heart so completely."

She breathes out, almost tasting the pounding of her pulse on her tongue. Disentangling her hand from his, she pushes aside her empty plate and picks up their wine glasses, taking one step in the direction of their bedroom. "Are you tired?"

He's quick to follow her lead, and soon his hand is sliding down her spine to caress the curve of her ass, his nose nudging the tender spot behind her ear, the one that makes her knees turn to water. "Not in the least, love."

"Good."

She leads him to the bedroom door, then turns to kiss him, her fingers tightening around their wineglasses as he kisses her back, his tongue sweeping lazily between her lips to taste and tease. When it's over, she pulls back, breathless and happier than she's felt in a long time. "Wanna go make some more new memories?"

Hunger darkens his eyes as he takes his glass from her too-tight grip, making her smile as he clinks it against her own glass in a toast. "I would be honoured," is his simple reply, and the ghostly spectre of the women who had graced his bed before her vanishes in a puff of certainty and want and _love_.

"On, the other hand, there's a lot to be said for a bit of pillaging and plundering," she murmurs, letting her tongue tease her bottom lip as her fingertip traces the rim of her wineglass, and his eyes darken even more, burning like sapphires as he stares at her.

Before she knows it, the wineglass is gone from her hand and he's sweeping her up into his arms, tossing her over his shoulder as if she weighs less than nothing. "Come on then, wench." His voice is a rough growl in her ear, and desire quivers through her like a live wire. "It's the Captain's Quarters for you, I'm afraid."

She's still laughing when she lands on the mattress, his heated kiss stealing her breath, his hook cool against the warm skin of her breast as it slides beneath her shirt, and the other women mean less than nothing, because he's hers as much as she's his (heart and soul and body) and that's all that matters.


End file.
